


The Back to School Affair

by LeetheT



Category: The Man from UNCLE
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:32:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	The Back to School Affair

“A what?” Napoleon asked, adding belatedly, “sir?”

“A professor of American History, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly repeated. “It’s the only way you can keep an eye on Gerhardt Kuiper without posing as a student.”

“No, sir, I think I’d prefer being a professor,” Napoleon said, airily ignoring his partner’s smile.

“Do you remember your American History, Napoleon?” Illya teased, lounging by Napoleon’s side in the conference room of UNCLE HQ New York.

Coolly Napoleon said, “I think I’ll manage for the short time I’m there.” To Waverly he said, “What exactly are we supposed to do with Dr. Kuiper? Bring him in from the cold?”

“If possible. He hasn’t wanted any interference in his life since he defected from THRUSH 10 years ago. He’s undergone extensive plastic surgery, taken the name Gerald Green and acquired a quite passable British accent; he’s been teaching at Coast University for several years, with few the wiser. Now, however...”

“THRUSH is getting close,” Illya said.

“Precisely. And they surely intend to silence him permanently. We’ve tried to talk Professor ... ah ...Green into accepting our protection. And telling us what he knows about the top officials of THRUSH, of course. He gave us no information. He claims to believe he is no longer in danger because he’s no longer a threat to THRUSH security.” Mr. Waverly’s tone indicated what he thought of that naive theory. “He lives alone, quietly, not doing much more than teaching, but he distrusts strangers and does not have many close friends. It will be your job to get as close to him as possible, Mr. Solo. Befriend him, if you can. Try to convince him he is in danger — and protect him from any that happens to come his way.”

Napoleon nodded. “And what will Mr. Kuryakin’s assignment be?”

Mr. Waverly smiled slightly; that exceptional event erased Illya’s smirk.

“Mr. Kuryakin will be going back to school in a more ... traditional sense. We’ve decided to use him as a graduate student, in Professor Green’s class. Between the two of you you should have a broad view of the situation and of any potential threats.”

“A graduate student?” Illya said faintly. “Again?”

“Yes.” Mr. Waverly’s smile turned wicked. “I believe that in addition to your class with Dr. Green, your schedule contains a course in American History, taught by a Professor Solo.”

Illya sank back in his chair as Napoleon grinned.

“What is it Dr. Green teaches, sir?” Napoleon asked, shooting Illya a look that clearly said he hoped it was modern dance. Though Illya would probably manage to pass even that.

“Physics,” Mr. Waverly said. “I expect you should be able to muddle through a few weeks of the course, Mr. Kuryakin?”

Absolutely deadpan — save for the amused twinkle in his eyes — Illya glanced at Napoleon and said, “Yes sir, I expect I can.”

Napoleon scowled. Some people had all the luck. “I won’t cut you any slack in my class, Mr. K.”

“I never doubted it, professor,” Illya said easily.

“Your plane tickets are in reception, along with directions to your temporary living quarters. Remember: We want Dr. Green alive if possible, but mostly we want the information in his head. Good luck, gentlemen.”

* * * *

Carlee shoved her sunglasses down on her suntan-oil-slick nose and glanced up from poolside at the sound of a motorcycle roaring to a stop in front of the tiny apartment complex. Her friends Sharon and Deb didn’t shift their bikini-clad bodies from the lounge chairs until Carlee, watching the rider dismount, said, “Oh my...”

Her friends rolled languorously over and watched the blond man in black leather dismount and unstrap a big bag from the back of the motorcycle. He turned and surveyed the complex, through dark sunglasses, apparently unaware of the trio doing the same with him.

“Things are looking up,” Sharon said.

“You have a boyfriend,” Deb said. “For every day of the week, as I recall.”

Carlee grinned.

“Things could change,” Sharon replied, luxuriously stretching her impressive body. Carlee and Deb put up with her in spite of her exceptional beauty because underneath it she was a decent girl. “He’s very interesting looking.”

Carlee watched the man — a few years older than them, she thought, probably a grad student — brush blond bangs out of his face and trot up the steps to the second-floor walkway. She got up, throwing a towel over her shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Sharon asked.

“Coke,” Carlee said with a grin. “It’s hot.”

“Good idea,” Deb said, springing up from her chair. Sharon followed at a more leisurely pace, and the three friends went upstairs, each keeping half an eye on the newcomer as he walked past door after door.

“Ha!” Deb said, low. “He’s gonna be next door.”

“There’s a couple of empties up here,” Carlee said. “Why would he spring for more than a studio unless he has a girlfriend or something?”

“Maybe he has money,” Sharon said. Carlee chuckled.

The friends reached number 14, the apartment Deb and Carlee shared, at the same moment the newcomer set his bag down in front of number 13.

“Hi there,” Sharon said, seductively lowering her voice about an octave and her towel about a yard. Deb and Carlee exchanged a smirk.

The man pulled off the dark glasses to reveal amazingly blue eyes. “Hello. It appears we’re neighbors.” He glanced at the door to his place while Carlee tried to place the accent in his deep voice. Europe, she thought, but got no further than that. “Well,” he went on, “thirteen has always been my lucky number.”

All three women laughed — Carlee thought they sounded like a chicken coop in a laying frenzy — and Sharon said:

“I’m Sharon Baker; this is Deborah Clark and Carlee McNeil.” She extended her tanned, perfectly manicured hand, which the newcomer raised to his lips to lightly kiss. Sharon shivered; Carlee, watching her, thought that for once it wasn’t entirely an act. She knew that right now, Sharon would gladly trade her own private apartment, downstairs, for the crowded place Carlee and Deb shared.

“Illya Kuryakin.”

“Ah,” Carlee said. “Russian.” He turned those eyes on her and she willed herself to not blush. “I was trying to guess.”

“What’s your major?” Deb asked.

“I am a graduate student in physics,” he said, looking around the complex in a quick yet probing manner that suggested to Carlee he was seeking escape routes.

“I’ve always wanted to study Russian,” Sharon breathed. “Maybe you could tutor me.”

Deb and Carlee started laughing. “Sorry, Shar,” Carlee said as the newcomer calmly observed their exchange. “That was about as subtle as a landslide.”

Sharon blushed under her deep tan, said to Illya, “Don’t pay any attention to them.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Deb said. “And welcome to Coast U.”

Carlee offered, “I’m not a physics major, but I have a friend who is. He’s brilliant, and he says we have some of the best profs in the country here. I think you’ll be glad you came.”

Illya nodded, offered the women a small smile that, to Carlee, suggested he’d already forgotten their presence. “I think I already am. But I have a lot of unpacking to do, so if you’ll excuse me...”  He unlocked and opened the door to his apartment.

“If you need to borrow any sugar or anything,” Deb said. Sharon smacked her on the arm.

“I’ll know where to look,” he said. “It was a pleasure meeting you all. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

“Oh, you will,” Sharon purred. “At the party tonight.”

“Party?”

“End-of-summer bash by the pool,” Deb said. “Everyone will be there. And then some. I hope you can come.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He went inside, closing the door.

“Oh my God,” Sharon said.

“When did you become religious?” Deb teased.

“Those eyes! That accent! That voice!”

“That complete lack of interest,” Deb put in, grinning. “You’re hooked, I can see that.”

Carlee opened the door to #14 and went in to get a coke, followed by her friends. ‘A lot of unpacking to do?’ He had one bag. Unless more stuff was being shipped later. Or maybe he’d just wanted to get away from them.

She brought out three cokes and looked measuringly at her friends.

“What?” Sharon said.

“I know that look,” Deb replied. “She’s wondering how much trouble she’d have getting rid of the bodies.”

Carlee laughed. “In a way,” she admitted. “It’s your fault, both of you, for being prettier than I am. Murder is my only option.”

“In the first place,” Sharon said, “You’re perfectly pretty. In the second place, you’re a lot smarter than me, and maybe even a little smarter than her—” she shoved Deb, who protested:

“Hey! Who—”

“Since he’s studying physics, he must be pretty smart. You have as good a chance as anyone.” Her beautiful green eyes narrowed. “Hmm. Now I’m wondering where to stash the bodies...”

“It’s hot,” Deb said. “Let’s get in the water. Maybe we can lure the object of your lusts into the pool when he’s done unpacking.”

“Our lusts?” Carlee challenged as they trooped out.

Deb shrugged. “OK, maybe he’s a little cute...but good grief, give the guy a chance to unpack before you pounce.”

“Hmm...” Sharon said again as they descended. “He’s right above me.”

Deb groaned. “Oh, don’t offer me an opening like that! And I don’t want to hear you saying anything along the lines of ‘Oh, Illya, I love having you on top of me.’“

Sharon’s mouth formed an O of mock-shock. Carlee laughed out loud. “My God, you two will drive him away before classes even start.”

“Hey — did you see we have a new history prof?” Deb said.

“Yeah,” Sharon concurred. “They said Professor Twomy is on sick leave. I can’t remember the new one’s name, though.”

“God, I hope he’s not as boring as Twomy,” Carlee said. “With all the wars and tragedies and love affairs and adventures in history, you’d think it would be impossible to make it all so staggeringly dull.”

“I guess we find out tomorrow,” Deb said.

* * * *

The small apartment complex, about a mile from campus, stood between two flat grassy fields that in time, no doubt, would sport further student housing. It faced  two very similar, though larger, apartment buildings across the street. Its three sides surrounded a small swimming pool; it offered two floors of studios and small one-bedroom apartments. Illya had chosen the latter due to his desire to keep his cache of more esoteric gear out of immediate view of anyone who should happen by. It also allowed a secondary surreptitious escape route aside from the balcony outside the living room.

Immediately after unloading his gear he set up various warning devices and a mirror system that would enable him to see if the drapes in the apartment below were open or closed; he wanted to be able to slip over the balcony and across the fields if necessary without drawing attention. Departure through the front door would almost inevitably be witnessed by the constantly coming and going student body.

Speaking of student bodies ... Illya smiled to himself as he knelt by the balcony doors to set up a passive alarm. If that Carlee and her friends were any example, this was at least going to be a visually pleasant mission. One blonde, one brunette, one redhead: a perfect mix. He pictured the almost comical look of delight that was sure to be on Napoleon’s face as his partner ventured onto the campus for the first time, and vowed to frequently remind Napoleon of the moral objections to a professor dating his students — just to see the dismay on his partner’s face. Knowing Napoleon, though, he’d probably run into a sexy literature professor within his first five minutes on campus.

As if on cue his communicator beeped at him. He pulled it out of his leather jacket, then took the jacket off and dropped it on the couch. It was warm in the apartment.

“Open Channel D.”

“School Days, School Days...”

Illya sighed. “Professor Solo, I presume.”

The singing stopped. “It is indeed, comfortably ensconced in a four-room apartment overlooking campus, the beautiful blue Pacific, and Dr. Green himself.”

“Have you seen him yet?”

“Only at a distance. He went on campus a short time ago, no doubt to prepare for classes tomorrow. That’s where I’m headed now. I’m going to arrange some sort of accidental meeting and the introduction of some topic of mutual interest, such as —”

“Women?” Illya put in.

“Well, he is a bachelor, only about 40 years old. Most of the faculty is married.”

“Well, it’s certainly a subject you know more about than physics,” Illya said.

“How are you settling in at the dormitory?” Napoleon asked. “Do you get your own bathroom?”

“My apartment is very nice,” Illya replied, “Proximate to a number of very beautiful young ladies who are going out of their way to see that I feel welcome.” Caressing the words, he grinned imagining the look on Napoleon’s face.

“Have you seen THRUSH’s advance man?”

“Not yet. I plan to make myself a social animal at the end-of-summer pool party tonight.”

“Don’t become too much of an animal; remember these girls are very young.”

Illya grinned. “They’re old enough. There are only 20 units in the building; I hope I can pick our feathered friend out from amongst the genuine students.”

“I hope he — or she — doesn’t pick you out first. I’d hate to have to mark you absent on the first day of school because you’d been killed.”

“Your concern for my academic record is touching, professor. I’m going to unpack and join the party.”

The banter left his partner’s tone. “Be careful. Keep in touch.”

“I will. Out.”

* * * *

By dusk the party was in full swing; Carlee wandered through the crowd around the pool, sipping a rum and coke, heavy on the coke, and pretending to herself she wasn’t keeping her eyes peeled for a certain blond head of hair. Someone broke out a guitar and a number of people started singing “Ticket to Ride,” not too well, as some others began to dance.

She scanned the balcony that ran around the second-floor apartments and saw only one person: the grad student who’d moved in a couple of weeks ago from New York, whose first name she could never remember. She always called him, in her mind, Whatsisname Bledsoe. She gazed at him for a moment; tall, lanky, black-haired and serious looking ... Marvin, that was it. Marvin Bledsoe. She was surprised he was even out of his apartment, but not surprised that he stood apart from the festivities. She hadn’t seen him once since he’d moved in, and he wasn’t very friendly then.

“Well?” came the question at her elbow. She turned to see Sharon in a very tight, very short white dress. “Where is he?”

“Who?” Carlee asked, all innocence. Sharon poked her in the side.

“Come on, where’ve you hidden him?”

“Under my dress,” Carlee purred.

“You wish.” Sharon stood on tiptoe to scan the crowd. Carlee sipped her coke and smiled. Sharon could find a male needle in the biggest haystack there was.

The guitar player broke into a song Carlee didn’t recognize. It sounded like a folk song, sung by a ravishing baritone that sent a chill up her spine.

“When you find him, be sure to let me know,” she told Sharon, moving in a circuitous route toward the music.

She edged through the knot of people to see Illya seated cross-legged on a chaise longue, playing a guitar she recognized as belonging to Fred Schimdt in apartment 1, and singing — maybe a Russian folk song. The kids around him grinned in rapt fascination.

When he was done, they applauded, and he started playing a Bob Dylan tune.

Carlee moved a little away, to where she could stare unabashed without him seeing, and planted herself in a chair.

After a couple more traditional folk tunes — though the students surrounding him begged him not to stop — he handed the guitar back to Fred and slid through the crowd, headed for the table where the food and drinks were set up. When he saw Carlee, however, he smiled slightly and came to sit next to her.

“That was great,” she said. “Music minor?”

He shook his head. “It’s just a hobby.”

“Well, you had them in the palm of your hand,” she said. “Me too. If you ever decide not to be a physicist, you have a music career to fall back on.”

“I don’t think I’m cut out for that. The music business is...” Again the smile. “...rather risky.” He nodded toward the milling crowd as Fred started to play some flamenco-sounding thing. “Do you know all these people?”

Carlee looked around. “A lot of them. A bunch of these guys are from the apartments over there—” She waved toward the buildings across the street. “I’ve lived here since my junior year, and so have a lot of them. In this little building, I’ve watched the pairings change around some, and a couple of people transferred, but it’s pretty consistent. Other than you there’s only three new tenants.”

“Who?”

“Camille Fitzpatrick — she’s the little blonde, right over there — she’s an art major from back east. And there’s Whatsisname Bledsoe, who was hanging around on the balcony a while back. Tall dark-haired guy. He said he was from New York. No idea what his major is, although I see him around campus a lot. And Tim Timmons. He’s a poli-sci major, about 25, used to be in the army. He’s not here tonight, as far as I’ve seen.”

He glanced sidelong at her, one eye squinted. “Whatsisname Bledsoe?”

“Sorry. Um ... Marvin. I just always forget. Not that it matters, since I never talk to him. Or, I should say, he never talks to me.”

“Unsociable?” Illya asked.

Carlee winced inwardly as she saw Sharon coming toward them, two drinks in hand.

“That would be my impression.”

“Well, there you are,” Sharon said. “I thought you had decided not to join us.”

“I love a good party,” Illya said flatly.

“Well, that was convincing,” Carlee muttered.

“Try this,” Sharon said, handing Illya a cup. “My own special mix. Guaranteed to put hair on your chest, or whatever it is my father always says about these sorts of things.”

Illya took the cup but didn’t sample the contents. “Thank you. I never asked you both what your majors are.”

“Drama,” Sharon said.

“English,” Carlee said, thinking he probably could have guessed both. Sharon exuded drama; she herself was as dowdy and plain as any librarian. She imagined herself just then giving in to the impulse to kick Sharon into the pool. The image made her smile.

“English?” Illya asked her, one brow cocked.

“She’s going to write the Great American Novel,” Sharon said.

“I thought that had been done,” Illya said.

“Actually I intend to write a number of mediocre novels,” she said blithely. Sharon and Illya chuckled.

Then Illya, gazing across the quad as if he’d seen someone he knew, got up, setting the drink down. “Excuse me.”

And he was gone into the crowd.

“Hm... was it something I said?” Sharon muttered, taking his chair.

“Or me,” Carlee said. “Who knows? I wonder what a Russian is doing going to graduate school here.”

“Didn’t you ask him?” Sharon asked. “I’d have his life history by now.”

“And an engagement ring, probably,” Carlee teased with the half of her attention she could spare.

Sharon shrugged. “Who knows. Although I’ll be damned if I’m moving to Russia. I wonder if he’s a defector.”

That drew Carlee’s attention. “Hmm. You’re right. I never thought of that.”

“Well, if he’s not, I’ll see if I can get him to reconsider,” Sharon said, rising and strolling off in the same direction, taking a lot of male attention along in her wake. Carlee chuckled. What was it about girls like Sharon that they were driven to acquire more male attention than they could reasonably handle?

* * * *

Illya Kuryakin sidled through the crowd toward the little blonde girl, Camille. With subtle skill he divided her from the tall skinny boy in the letterman’s jacket who was regaling her with basketball stories and engaged her in sufficient conversation — about five minutes — to determine she had scarcely the wit to find her mascara in the morning, let alone be a THRUSH operative. Since the third newcomer, Timmons, wasn’t in attendance, he set out to find the second, Whatsisname Bledsoe.

Illya winced to realize he’d picked up the catchy, if insulting, nickname already. He scanned the second storey and noticed a tall dark-haired young man walking along the balcony. He made his way in that direction.

* * * *

Bledsoe glanced his way as he approached, then returned his gaze to the party below.

Illya stopped a few feet away, rested his elbows on the railing.

“You don’t seem inclined to join in the festivities,” he said politely. Bledsoe lowered his dark glasses for a moment, revealing equally dark eyes under scowling black brows.

“Where you from?” he asked suspiciously.

“Apartment 13,” Illya said. “I just moved in.”

“No.” Bledsoe took the glasses off. “I mean what country. You’re not an American.”

“Is that a problem?” Illya asked mildly.

“That depends,” Bledsoe said.

Illya held up both hands. “I was just trying to be friendly.”

Bledsoe straightened. “I have enough friends.” He looked over Illya’s shoulder and his eyes blazed with ... hate, Illya would have said. The Russian heard footsteps behind him and turned to see a young man with close-cropped sandy hair, smiling as he approached.

“Hi.” He was neatly dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks, hands shoved into his pockets. “You two checking out the chicks up here?” He let his eyes run over the partying crowd below. Bledsoe sneered.

 The newcomer stuck out a hand. “I’m Tim. Tim Timmons. Carlee tells me you’re the latest addition to the building.”

“Illya Kuryakin.” Illya shook his hand.

The smile altered, curious but not hostile. “Russian? So what do you think of America?”

“It’s overwhelming,” Illya said. Tim chuckled.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you don’t have anything like this in Russia.” He nodded toward the pool party.

Illya followed his gaze. “Not really, no.”

“What are you doing in America?” Bledsoe demanded to know. “I thought the commies hated everything to do with us.”

Illya simply looked at him, one brow upraised.

Tim cut in smoothly. “Don’t pay any attention to him. It’s nothing personal.” He gave Bledsoe a cool look, amused, superior. “He hates everyone.”

Illya looked at Bledsoe. Red-faced, Whatsisname opened his mouth, snapped it shut, and spun around, striding away from them.

Tim chuckled.

“If looks could kill,” Illya remarked.

“Oh, he’s a major drag,” Tim said. “The only time he talks to anyone is to snarl at them. So you’re a grad student?”

Illya nodded. “Physics. You?”

“Political Science.”

“Is there a living to be had in that?” Illya asked politely. Tim chuckled.

“Sure. I’ve always wanted to run a country.”

“I think it would be easier to run a reactor.” Illya again scanned the crowd. Someone had put on a Rolling Stones record. He had a bad feeling about Bledsoe; he would have preferred to keep his eye on him, but the man was gone. “Although either one might explode if improperly handled.”

“Atoms are more predictable than people,” Tim said. “But knowing how to control people will usually get you farther in the world than knowing how to control atoms.”

Illya glanced at him; he was leaning on the railing, head bobbing to the music, one tennis-shoe-clad foot tapping.

“True.” Illya moved away from Tim. He was about to say good-bye and go in search of Bledsoe when he heard a soft thud and saw plaster spray in white fragments from the wall behind him.

Bullet. Adrenaline spearing him, Illya ducked back, away from the railing, reaching for his gun as he started to warn Tim.

Tim sprang into motion, grinning. “Time to dance,” he said, starting down the corridor, not even looking at Illya.

Another thud and shower of dust, inches from the other — Illya realized, as he backed behind a support post, that it would have hit Tim’s head if the man hadn’t moved when he did.

Oblivious, Tim shouted, “Come on!” as he ran for the stairs, waving one hand to urge Illya to follow. Illya quickly scanned the other apartment doors — all closed — the roofline across the courtyard — clear — and the street — dark, a few parked cars, plenty of students crossing back and forth between the apartment buildings, but no visible gunmen.

Tempted to draw his gun, to move, to call out a warning, Illya did none of those things. If someone was shooting at him, Tim was safer the farther away he got. Still he watched as the young man trotted down the steps and merged into the gyrating mass of students.

Illya stayed where he was, under cover, considering the angle of the shots. The direction of the plaster spray suggested the shots had been fired from the street.

He ran for the staircase nearest the street and darted down, hand on the butt of his gun but not drawing the weapon as he moved through the shadows and the shrubs, scanning the street and peering into the windows of the parked cars. He found only a necking couple in the back of a beat-up sedan; they were too busy to notice him.

From the cover of an unoccupied parked car he scrutinized the apartment buildings facing his. Many lights were on; loud folk music from an open upstairs window blended with the rock and roll blaring from the pool party, and kids, in pairs or groups, were going back and forth, talking and laughing. It would be easy for anyone who didn’t want to be found to disappear in this crowd.

Illya made a surreptitious circuit of the apartment complex, finding nothing, then returned to his apartment. If the attacker tried again he wanted to be away from innocent bystanders. He set up his passive alarms and sat in the darkness, thinking thoughts in harsh contrast to the sounds of gaiety wafting up from poolside.

When the party broke up he went to bed, keeping one hand on his Special.

* * * *

Dawn came grey and foggy — and very early. Illya made a pot of strong tea and watched the fog crawl in from the sea beyond his balcony. He debated contacting Napoleon with what he’d learned — or, more accurately, suspected — but his partner was probably already awake, preparing for his first day as a professor, so there’d be no fun in contacting him now.

Instead he simply drained his tea, showered, dressed in the comfortable student uniform of jeans and a soft cotton shirt, and roared to campus, his motorcycle shattering the damp grey quiet of the morning.

He arrived at the modern, spacious complex of buildings about 20 minutes before the cafeteria opened, so he used the time to prowl about campus. Very few people were there; students and teachers alike wore sleepy, rather put-upon expressions.

Illya walked the perimeter of the campus, getting a mental map set in his mind, locating the science building, which housed Dr. Green’s office, noting with slight dismay the many ways in and out.

The fog started to clear, blown away by a cool breeze, and he went to the cafe to collect a cup of coffee and a muffin. With these he returned to the science building. He sat on a slightly clammy bench, munching the stale muffin and, with the class schedule on his knees, considered ways of infiltrating Dr. Green’s confidence.

* * * *

“Wow. You’re here early.”

He looked up to see Carlee, half-blocked from view by an armload of books and binders. Automatically he scooted over on the bench and she sat heavily.

“Whew. Only one more year and then I’m free,” she said, depositing her books on the bench beside her.

“Into the real world,” Illya said, thinking that ‘free’ wasn’t the first word he’d use to describe it.

She gave him a sidelong look, half smiling. “What makes you think this isn’t?”

He kept to himself the automatic retort that one rarely got shot at and blown up in school. That was his real world, true, but it wasn’t most people’s.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked, glancing at his schedule. “Physics at 8 a.m. is nothing to be cheerful about.”

“It is if you enjoy it,” he replied.

“Hey, we both have the same history class.”

“Really.” Illya picked up the schedule, folding it.

“Professor Solo, at 9:30. He’s new.”

“Do you know anything about Dr. Green?”

“A little. My friend Jimmy is one of his grad students.”

“What is he like?”

Carlee gazed off into space for a moment, lips pursed. “He’s about 40. No family as far as anyone knows. He’s nice. This is a pretty informal campus — you’ll find that out — and some of the professors hang out at the pub sometimes, you know, socialize with the students. Dr. Green goes there, but he sits in the corner and drinks beer and doesn’t really talk to anyone.”

“You’ve seen him there?”

“Sure. I go sometimes. When I’m with Jimmy — that’s my friend, the physics major — sometimes Jimmy’ll go talk to him, and he’s polite, you know, but not really friendly.” Carlee shrugged. “I don’t know why he doesn’t just stay home. He’s a good prof, though. Very fair, knows everything about physics.”

“According to Jimmy, I take it?” Illya asked. Carlee laughed.

“Of course. I wouldn’t know physics if it dropped an apple on my head.”

Illya chuckled.

“Would it be considered rude of me to ask if you are a defector?” she asked then. “Is that too personal a question?”

Carefully he said, “The Soviet government does permit student visas.”

She considered that and, he was impressed to see, realized it wasn’t an answer.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”

He said, “I don’t mind. I’m just not at liberty to talk about some things.”

She looked around at the nearly empty campus. The nearest person was 30 feet away. “Here?” she asked, incredulous.

He shrugged.

“Do you like it here? In the U.S., I mean.”

He smiled. “Yes.”

She grinned. “We’re glad to have you, too. All the girls in the apartment complex are talking about you.”

He looked mildly uncomfortable.

“Well, I’m a new face,” he said.

She laughed. “To say the least.”

* * * *

At 9:25, Sharon, Deb and Carlee strolled into the small auditorium assigned for their graduate history class.

“There’s Illya!” Sharon said, elbowing Carlee.

The Russian glanced up from his book and waved at the trio, who gently jostled each other to try for the seat closest to him. Sharon won the battle but lost the war, due to a couple of burly lettermen who’d taken advantage of the brief melee to cadge the spots next to Illya.

Giggling amongst themselves, the girls arranged their notebooks and pens as other students trickled in.

At 9:30 precisely, the door opened again.

“Hey,” Sharon said, elbowing Deb and Carlee. “Good lookin’!”

The man strolled to the podium, scanned the room and smiled slightly, dark eyes twinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses. Of medium height, he wore a dark suit that flattered his fit build and broad shoulders. One lock of well-trimmed dark hair fell rakishly over his forehead.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

The 20 or so students mumbled a response.

“Wow...” Sharon drew the word out in sensual speculation.

“He doesn’t dress like a prof,” Deb said wonderingly. “That suit cost a fortune, or I’m an itinerant farm laborer.”

“I thought you were,” Carlee whispered. Deb whacked her on the arm, and Sharon shushed them both.

“Teacher’s pet,” Deb hissed.

“I wish,” Sharon averred.

“I’m Professor Solo,” he continued, his voice low and smooth. “I’m here to tell you the truth about American History. It’s entirely possible that you may be surprised.”

Carlee glanced at Illya. He had one hand loosely covering his mouth, but it looked like he was grinning. It was the first grin she’d seen, and made him look very young, but she was at a loss as to what had caused it.

Professor Solo looked over the group and smiled, immediately taking command of the room. “Let’s start with the colonies...”

*  * *  *

At the end of the liveliest and most scandalous lecture on the colonization of America Carlee had ever heard, Professor Solo lowered his glasses to the end of his nose and scanned them.

“Any questions?”

To Carlee’s surprise, Illya stood up.

“Professor Solo?”

The professor raised his eyes to Illya, regarded him coolly.

“Yes, Mr...?”

“Kuryakin,” Illya said, adjusting his weird shaded glasses.

“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Isn’t it true that, contrary to popular myth, Britain not only did not oppress the colonies but in fact taxed them at a far lower rate than any of its other colonies, and then only for necessities?” He closed his mouth sharply, lips pursed as though fighting a smile.

Carlee looked at Professor Solo. He too looked as if he were fighting a smile, and she wondered what was going on here; did they know each other?

“In fact, Mr. Koorakulin-”

“Kuryakin, sir,” Illya put in coolly.

“Kuryakin. In fact, the leaders of the colonies were not rebelling based on the scenario you present, which is indeed accurate.” His tone became severely formal, a marked change from the conversational manner of the lecture. “They wished sovereignty, release from a rule that had no knowledge of their realities and needs as a new country striving to carve out an existence in a land that was mostly dangerous wilderness. So you see, Mr. Kirkoolian—”

“Kuryakin, sir,” Illya repeated.

“Yes. So you see—”  A gentle gong on the podium sounded.

“Ah. That’s all the time we have for now. Dismissed.” Professor Solo began to arrange his notes as the students headed for the doors, talking amongst themselves in general approval at the informality and content of the class. Illya headed down to talk to the professor; though tempted to follow and eavesdrop, Carlee went with Sharon and Deb to the door.

*  *  * *

“Kirkoolian?” Illya said when he reached the podium.

“You were challenging my authority on the very first day of classes,” Napoleon replied, unrattled.

“I thought it best to set precedent early. Speaking of which, have you spoken to Kuiper ... I mean Green ... yet?”

Napoleon shook his head. “My office is — coincidentally — next to his. He has a break after this period. I think I’ll take a couple of sandwiches in there and see if I can persuade him to break bread with me. He doesn’t usually leave his office for lunch.” Napoleon glanced up at the departing students. “Have you learned anything?”

“No. I’ve got the plant narrowed down to two new residents at the complex, but I can’t tell yet which. One was absent, the other next to me, when someone decided to indulge in a little late night target practice.”

Napoleon’s head came up. Illya waved his concern away.

“Rifle shots, silenced. Both missed. In fact, it came closer to one of our suspects — Timmons — than to me. He didn’t hear or see, though.”

Napoleon scowled, dubious.”You think he was the target, not you?”

Illya shrugged. “He went back down to the party and I looked around. Then I went to my apartment. There were no further attempts.”

“Could it have been your other suspect?” Napoleon asked.

“The thought had occurred. I’ll try to get photos. We can have Section Four check on them.”

“Do I have them in any of my classes?”

* * * *

The two heads bent over Napoleon’s schedule as Carlee peeped in the door. She watched them run index fingers down papers on the podium, speaking softly to one another. Something, the casual proximity of their posture, the shorthand of their conversation, said to her that they knew one another. She wondered why that seemed strange.

* * * *

Napoleon walked up to the beachside cafe, shading his eyes as he peered across the beach. Nothing untoward made itself known to his scanning gaze, so he sat at a table near the sand and put his feet up on an adjacent chair.

The waitress had come, gone, and returned with an iced tea before he spotted his partner walking up the sidewalk along the beach. Barefoot, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, with mirrored sunglasses, he fit the image of a student to a T.

Illya approached. “Professor Solo,” he said.

Napoleon squinted up at his partner, battling a smile. “Mr.  ... Korkanian, isn’t it?”

Illya slid into a seat. “It’s too hot for humor, Napoleon.”

Napoleon chuckled. “I don’t know. You really look the part. And you act the part too. Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying flouting my authority.”

Illya removed the sunglasses, still squinting even under the shade of the table umbrella. “All right. I won’t tell you.” He waved for the waitress. “Why are we here again?”

“We’re talking about homework,” Napoleon said, sliding a file folder in front of his partner. “Particularly regarding the lady THRUSH has assigned to remove Dr. Green from the faculty here.”

Illya opened the folder. “Lady?”

Napoleon shrugged. “Presumption.”

“That’s only because no one’s shot at you yet.”

“Yes, I’m a little concerned about that.”

Illya chuckled as he read the file. “Me too.”

Serious, Napoleon went on. “How is it they’ve spotted you already?”

Illya shrugged. “I’m not the only one it missed by inches. I suspect Whatsisname—”

‘Whatsisname?”

“—he was only unfriendly to me. He treated Timmons as though he hates him. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was him taking a shot at Timmons.”

“Don’t you think that’s a rather drastic step to take over a schoolboy squabble?” Napoleon asked.

“Perhaps they’re rivals in love,” Illya suggested. “Or maybe it’s money. I don’t know.”

Napoleon gave him an incredulous look. “You think that’s a more likely explanation than THRUSH?” He shook his head. “I think we should pull you out, if your cover’s blown.”

“We don’t know it is,” Illya said, flipping through the files, studying the photo of a beautiful woman with raven hair and cold black eyes. “It’s been three days with no more attempts, after all.”

A waitress came and took Illya’s order for a coke, then went away. Illya tapped the photo.

“Daphne DuPrez? Why does that name ring a bell?” He squinted up at Napoleon. “One of your old flames?”

“We ran afoul of her in Paris two years ago,” Napoleon said, ignoring the jibe and permitting the change of subject. “She was piloting that little emerald smuggling operation.”

“Oh yes. And now her task is to smuggle Dr. Green from his freedom and back into THRUSH’s fold. Temporarily, at least.”

“Yes, I suspect he’s slated for early ... retirement. THRUSH-style,” Napoleon said. “UNCLE Los Angeles has informed me that Madamoiselle DuPrez and entourage arrived at LAX today.”

Illya looked up at him. “Does that mean they know Green is Kuiper?”

Napoleon cocked his head, a kind of small shrug. “It probably means they think he is.”

“Illlya!”

The agents looked up to see a delectable blonde in a tiny bikini and slightly less tiny white cover-up coming appealingly toward them over the sand, waving.

“She’s in my class,” Napoleon said.

“I’m not surprised you remember,” Illya said. “Her name is Sharon. She lives in my building.”

Napoleon watched her approach, eyes and voice expressionless. “Magna cum laude.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome to her, Napoleon. But remember this: I don’t know where she was when those shots were fired.”

He refrained from smiling when Napoleon shot him a look.

“What a nice surprise!” Sharon cooed at them as she stepped onto the restaurant patio. “Two of the best looking gentlemen on campus.”

Napoleon stood up. “You’re too kind, miss...”  He kicked Illya under the table. The Russian glanced up from the file.

“Oh.” He jumped up. “Miss Sharon Baker—”

“And you’re Professor Solo,” she purred, holding out a hand which Napoleon obligingly kissed. “I love your class. History has never been this interesting.” She sat down, uninvited, and Napoleon and Illya exchanged a quick look before doing the same. She peered from one to the other. “Are you tutoring Illya?” she asked.

“He’s a little behind,” Napoleon said smoothly.

Illya glanced up at her. “I learned a different version of American history,” he said darkly, then went back to reading the file on Daphne DuPrez.

Napoleon refrained from making a face at him. He looked back at Sharon to find her running her gaze over him.

“How does ... Mrs. Solo like it out here?” she asked sweetly. Illya snorted a laugh, hid it behind his hand, pretending to cough.

“I’m ... ah ... not married,” Napoleon said.

“What a shame,” Sharon lied.

“Isn’t it,” Illya muttered.

“I didn’t know you did private tutorials,” she said. Napoleon didn’t wait; he kicked Illya under the table to forestall the Russian’s response. Illya jumped.

“I’ll do all I can to ensure my students understand the material,” he said. “I have an open door policy.”

“That’s good to know,” she said, getting up. “I might take advantage some time.”

“Of course, Miss Baker,” Napoleon stood up, gave her a smile.

“It’s Sharon,” she lilted. “See you in class. Bye, Illya.” She waved and strolled away, turning the head of every male along the beach. Napoleon sat back down and watched her go, shaking his head.

“Coeds are certainly .... more coeducational these days,” he said thoughtfully.

Illya closed the file. “If she does decide to come to you for ... a private tutorial,” Illya said, closing the file and sliding it across the table toward Napoleon, “you might want to reconsider that open door policy.”

Napoleon affected offense. “The teacher-student relationship is sacrosanct, Mr. Koriglian.”

Illya got up. “My condolences. Any luck with Green?”

Napoleon shook his head. “I spoke to him briefly, found out his office hours. I plan to hang around this afternoon, maybe borrow a cup of pencils or something.”

Illya slid his sunglasses on. “I’ll see you in the morning, unless something happens.”

“Take care.” Napoleon put the file folder into his briefcase and watched his partner walk away along the beach.

* * * *

The next morning as Illya was trotting down the stairs, zipping his leather jacket against the foggy chill, he saw Whatsisname Bledsoe walk out onto the sidewalk, hands shoved into his coat pockets, face set in what seemed to be a perpetual scowl.

Illya stopped at the foot of the stairs; it looked like Bledsoe was waiting for a ride, which was odd, because Illya had identified his car; a late-model Mustang, blue, with a badly dented front fender.

Illya edged toward the wall, prepared to duck back, but Bledsoe didn’t look around. A moment later a limousine pulled to a stop in front of him. The driver — a bulky man in a dark suit, minus chauffeur’s cap — got out, came around, and opened the back door for Bledsoe.

Illya got a view, first, of a woman’s bare leg. Then he glimpsed a face, framed by dark hair, looking up at Bledsoe. Whatsisname blocked Illya’s view as he climbed into the back of the limo. The driver shut the door and got back in, and the car pulled away.

Illya considered following, but he didn’t want to risk giving himself away at this juncture. Instead he returned to his apartment and contacted UNCLE Los Angeles, asking for a complete workup on Whatsisname Bledsoe, who, had he not already been top suspect, would have moved to the head of the list once Illya saw him climbing into a limo with Daphne DuPrez.

Then Illya headed for campus, glad that his second class was with Napoleon; he could let him know about Bledsoe and Daphne.

Traffic was light this early, most of it headed for the college. Illya rode at a good speed, letting cars pass him, thinking about Daphne DuPrez’ arrival in town. Normally that would suggest THRUSH had identified Green as Kuiper, but the fact that she’d been here more than a day and had made no move against him implied THRUSH was still unsure; perhaps they’d traced Kuiper to the college, but hadn’t pinned him down yet. Then again, DuPrez knew both Napoleon and Illya on sight. All she would have to do was go on campus and see one of them to be sure she was in the right place.

Illya shook his head, squinting into the chilly draft. It was past time UNCLE brought Green in from the cold, with or without his cooperation.

Illya realized a car was following him closely; too close, really, at this speed. He slowed and moved his bike to the right to encourage the car, a dark sedan with two men in it, to go around. The car pulled to the left — then swerved at him.

Illya swerved too, just managing to keep the bike on the road. The car dropped back, coming up again on his right and herding him toward the other lanes just as a knot of cars appeared there. Illya accelerated, moving out of range of the sedan for a few seconds before it caught up, just behind him — and hit his back tire.

He felt the bike hop and wobble; fighting to control it, he swerved off the road, into the gravelly shoulder.

He fought it as long as possible, but inevitably the jouncing front tire hit a large stone and the handlebars jerked sideways. The bike bucked him off and he tucked and rolled, trying to get clear of the motorcycle itself. He slammed into the ground, slid a little, then rolled a few times, coming up against something hard. His bike thudded to a stop a few feet away.

He lay still, throbbing, taking stock of himself. The outlook was reasonably bullish, though he knew he’d have a body full of bruises and scrapes to contend with. He heard the sound of tires stopping on dirt, heard two doors open and close. He quickly pulled out his UNCLE special and held it hidden behind his body, then lay limp, closing his eyes save for the tiniest slit as he heard feet crunch across the ground toward him.

They stopped; in the silence he heard another car grind to a stop on the dirt. The men’s footsteps receded. He risked opening his eyes, saw their car pull away north as running footsteps approached from the south.

“Illya!” It was Carlee. “Oh my God!”

He sat up, tucking his gun inside his leather jacket. Carlee knelt beside him, reaching out but fearful of touching him.

“Are you all right? What happened?”

Illya forestalled her further efforts to help and got himself to his feet with many grunts and groans. Nothing felt broken. He looked after the sedan, racing toward the University. He ran for his bike, heaved it upright and started it.

“Illya...” Carlee called after him uncertainly. “Are you sure...”

He straddled the bike and gunned it after the sedan, careering a little until the tires grabbed the sure surface of the road. He pressed the motorcycle to its top speed, eyes on the now-distant sedan, but it disappeared around a curve, and when he reached that curve himself and could again see ahead, the car was lost in traffic.

* * * *

Illya parked his battered bike outside the building that housed the history and science offices and limped upstairs to Napoleon’s office, seeing but not reacting to the stares he got. Dr. Green’s office door was closed.

He made sure no one was in the corridor before slipping through the door to Napoleon’s office.

There he had to stop. Napoleon sat at a desk, surrounded by books, some on shelves, some still in boxes. Wearing a cardigan and the wire-framed glasses which Illya knew he did not need, he was perusing a fat tome with yellowed pages; he looked the part he was playing, and Illya found that, in a strange way, it made up for his morning.

Then Napoleon looked up. The eyes behind the glasses narrowed and he jumped out of his chair, coming around the desk.

“What happened?” He took Illya’s arm gently, urged him toward the short, ugly green sofa against one wall. “Sit down.”

“I’m all right.” Illya sat, gingerly, while Napoleon dug around in a box near his desk, coming up with a brown bottle and a washcloth.

“So I see,” he said, sitting on the couch and dabbing a peroxide-soaked corner of the cloth on various parts of his partner’s face.

“Ouch!” Illya winced away. “Not so hard.”

“Yes, I can tell you’re just fine,” Napoleon murmured as he continued working. “What happened?”

“I was in a little accident on my way to classes,” Illya said.

“Accident?”

“Well ... I don’t know what you Americans call it when it’s deliberate,” Illya admitted. “A black sedan with two men in it politely suggested I might prefer to ride either off the road or in the other lanes — the ones containing oncoming camfgh  —” the last word got mangled as Napoleon dabbed at Illya’s scraped lip.

Illya touched the spot lightly. “Once I’d — ow! — fallen in with their request they pulled over, presumably to offer further suggestions—”

“Not, one would guess, on how to live a long and healthy life,” Napoleon said. “Take off the jacket.”

“I’m all right,” Illya said, but shrugged off the battered leather jacket. To his own surprise the ground had won the argument with the tough material in at least two spots: his left elbow and right forearm were scraped. Napoleon applied the peroxide liberally, then located some bandages for the major abrasions.

“What saved you from bloody demise?” Napoleon asked as he wrapped the bandages around his partner’s extremities.

“Carlee came along—”

“Carlee?” Napoleon caressed the name, brows raised.

“A girl in my apartment building. She stopped to help. Since help was the last thing they wanted, they moved on. I was playing dead; maybe they hoped I was worse off than I was. In any case they drove off in this direction. I followed, but I lost them.”

“Well, it shows we’re on the right track,” Napoleon said. “Unless they were two random plug uglies who took a dislike to you with your long hair and leather jacket and motorcycle...” He pretended to consider the idea as Illya pulled the jacket back on over his torn shirt. “Maybe they weren’t THRUSH after all, just some loyal, old-fashioned Americans.”

Illya pointedly ignored the remark. “When I left the apartment this morning, I saw Whatsisname Bledsoe getting into a limousine. There was a woman in back.”

“Ah.” Napoleon’s chin lifted in comprehension. “A dark-haired and lovely black widow?”

Illya grimaced. “There was a resemblance. She might have seen me leaving and recognized me.”

“And sent her goons to erase you from the board, as it were.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “Your schoolboy metaphors become more incomprehensible every day. Any luck so far with Dr. Green?”

“Oh yes.” Napoleon got up, closed the door. “I spoke to him briefly yesterday and again this morning, managed to finagle a drink rendezvous with him at the student pub this evening. He’s actually a friendly man, but I can tell he’s wondering about me.”

“Do you think he suspects you’re from UNCLE?”

“Or he thinks I’m from THRUSH. I don’t know. He suspects me of something, but it looks like he’s willing to find out what it is as long as I don’t push him.” Napoleon shrugged. “Maybe he’s finally considering coming in from the cold.”

“He’d be a fool otherwise, considering his situation,” Illya said, rising stiffly. “Well, I’m off to class.

“Study hard,” Napoleon called. “Oh, I hear there’s a jazz combo in The Cap ‘n’ Gown tonight. You might want to drop in and check them out. That is if you’re not already planning a hot bath and a massage by a lovely young student masseuse.” He winked.

“I’ll see you later, Napoleon,” Illya said with exaggerated patience.

“That’s professor to you,” his partner called after him.

* * * *

Carlee was in the middle of making tea to fortify her through a session of studying incomprehensible modern poets when a knock came at the door. She left the kettle and went to the door.

“You’re awfully early—” she began, but it wasn’t Jimmy. It was Illya. Illya in black jeans, a black t-shirt and a sheepish half-grin. Holding a pink rose.

Carlee gradually became aware that her chin was resting on the stoop. She closed her mouth.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“I — sure — sorry — I thought it was —” She shook her head to clear it, stood aside. “Come on in.”

“Am I interrupting you?” he asked as he stepped into the apartment.

“No. Sorry. I thought it was Jimmy. We’re going to the pub tonight. But no. I was just making some tea so I could stay awake to study.”

He stood in the middle of the cluttered living room, rose still in hand, looking around. Carlee was abruptly, excruciatingly aware of the mess, of the fact that she hadn’t showered or done anything with her hair or makeup since morning, that she was wearing beat-up old jeans and a baggy sweatshirt with — God! she felt her cheeks flame — holes in it.

He turned to look at her, unperturbed, as far as she could see, by all those distressing realities.

“I’ve come to thank you for this morning,” he said, and held out the rose.

Carlee took the flower automatically, not sure exactly what he meant. “This morning? Oh. But I didn’t do anything. Are you okay?” She looked him over, saw for the first time the little cuts on his hands, the white bandage along the back of one arm. She longed to stroke it, make it feel better. She felt herself blush again.

“Minor abrasions,” he said. “But you’re wrong. You did something. It’s entirely possible you saved my life.”

Puzzled, she said, “All I did was stop.”

“Exactly.” He glanced around the room and Carlee jumped again; his presence had startled her right out of her manners.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Please sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Thank you.” He sat in the quilt-covered easy chair and picked up her book of poetry as she darted back into the kitchen. First she put the rose in a glass of water. Then she poured two mugs of now very dark tea.

“It’ll be strong,” she called out.

“I like it strong,” he called back.

“Anything in it?” she asked.

A pause. “Do you have any strawberry jam?”

Carlee felt her eyebrows go up, but she decided not to reveal her surprise. “Sure. How much?”

“A spoonful, please.”

She stirred a spoonful of jam into his tea, grinning. Must be some Russian custom. She found it cute; she also noticed her hands were shaking a little. Calm down, idiot. It’s a cup of tea, not a wedding. That made her laugh to herself, easing her nervousness.

She brought out the mugs, handed him his and sat on the couch.

“Thank you.” He took a sip; she tried not to watch too closely. His eyebrow went up.

“Perfect,” he said. “You’re studying modern poets?” He tapped the book that rested on his knee.

“Under duress,” she said with a grimace. “I guess I can only take so much existential angst before I want to yell at them to pull their heads out of ...” She blushed again. “Sorry. I think I’m too ... um ... common to understand all that.”

He hmmed thoughtfully, looked down. “You have a cat.”

Carlee drew her eyes from his face, down to the piquant sight of Zero rubbing around Illya’s ankles.

“Oh, that’s Zero. He’s a pseudo stray who hangs around here. Sort of a complex mascot. We all feed him, take turns taking him to the vet when he gets into fights with real strays. I think he belonged to a former student who just left him here.”

The black cat jumped onto Illya’s lap, purring, and sat demurely, not rubbing or demanding attention, seemingly content merely to be there. Carlee tried not to think along those lines.

“He likes you. He doesn’t usually like guys. Guys play a little too rough sometimes.”

“I would agree,” he said with a tiny, secret smile. The hand not holding the tea mug crept up as if on its own power to scratch the cat’s head delicately.

“Did that car run you off the road?” she asked. “It looked like it, but I was so far behind you...”

“They did. I don’t think they saw me.”

“Then why did they stop and then take off again?” she asked. He took a sip of tea and Zero butted his head against the bottom of the cup.

“You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to,” she said. In books that was always the cue for the person to spill their guts. Illya set the tea mug down on the table.

“Thank you,” he said, dumping the cat off his lap and rising. “I’d better be going. Thank you again for your help.”

She got up too, disappointed and a little annoyed. “I didn’t do anything,” she repeated, following him to the door. They both had to step over Zero more than once.

“Yes you did,” he said again.

Still annoyed, she opened the door for him and said, “Then you’re welcome.”

He left and Zero followed him out. Carlee shut the door and took the two tea mugs into the kitchen, thinking irritable thoughts until she spotted the rose in its glass on the counter. She put the cups down and smiled, bending over the flower to sniff it. Sweet but thorny, she thought, and laughed out loud. _Now you’re thinking cliched metaphors about him. That’s just great. Get a hold of yourself._

* * * *

Two students were talking with Dr. Green as Napoleon walked in to the pub at eight.

Well, he emended, one was. The boy, a tall, thin, nice looking kid, was animatedly expressing his views on some technical point to Dr. Green, who listened with what appeared to be faint amusement, while the girl, a pretty redhead, stood with arms crossed and lips pressed together, battling either anger or laughter.

After getting a few steps closer and seeing the glitter in her eyes Napoleon decided it was the latter. He donned a smile as he approached.

“Isn’t there some unwritten rule about discussing work after hours?”

The girl chuckled. Jimmy looked at him, a little abashed.

“Oh. Professor Solo.” Jimmy shrugged. “I just read this article in Physics about—”

“Enough—” the girl said, still smiling. “Professor Solo is right. Save it. Poor Dr. G would probably like to have his drink in peace.”

Not contradicting her, Dr. Green said, “Mr. Lewis’ enthusiasm for his subject is most laudable.”

Jimmy ran a hand through his unruly brown hair. “Gee, I’m sorry, Dr. Green.”

Dr. Green smiled. “Not at all, Mr. Lewis. Why don’t you two young people join us for a drink before the band starts again?”

He inclined his head toward the small bandstand where instruments rested bereft of their owners. Napoleon thought Dr. Green was wary of being alone with him. He pulled out a chair for the girl. “Yes, please do, Mr. Lewis, Miss..?”

“Carlee McNeil,” she said, with a faint blush and a demure glance from under thick lashes. “I really like your history class, Prof. Solo.” She and Jimmy sat. Napoleon moved a chair a little so his back would be to the wall, then sat down.

“Thank you, Miss McNeil,” he replied, smiling at her, simultaneously aware of Jimmy’s faint scowl and Dr. Green’s amused look. “I’m afraid the content might be shocking to some of my students. And colleagues.”

“It’s the only time I’ve ever found history interesting,” Jimmy admitted, thereby rising in Napoleon’s estimation. He’d expected the boy to turn surly after his girlfriend’s obvious shift in attentions — but maybe they were just friends. If so, Napoleon thought, the boy was a fool.

“I thought you never found anything interesting except physics,” Carlee teased. “And basketball.”

“If more teachers were like Dr. Solo and Dr. Green,” he said.

Napoleon and Dr. Green said, “Thank you,” simultaneously, caught one another’s eye, and exchanged smiles of tutorial triumph. A girl came over and took their drink orders: scotch for the professors, beer for the students. Napoleon wondered if perhaps it wasn’t for the best that the kids were there. If it took their presence to lower Dr. Green’s defenses, so be it.

“Jimmy’s top in his physics classes,” Carlee offered, presumably by way of apology for her teasing. Jimmy turned pink, but said, “Maybe I was, a week ago.”

“What changed?” Napoleon asked, smiling. “A girl?”

Jimmy shook his head. “A guy. Some foreign grad student.”

“Oh,” Carlee said, blushing in turn. “You mean Illya.”

Napoleon gave her a raised-brow glance and her blush shifted from rose to lobster.

Dr. Green brightened. “Mr. Kuryakin. Yes. Quite an impressive young man. Sometimes I suspect he knows more about the subject than I do.”

Napoleon smiled, wondering if that might not be true. Illya could play just about any role, but it wasn’t easy for him to pretend ignorance.

“I’ve had a couple of quite stimulating debates with that young fellow,” Dr. Green continued.

“So has Dr. Solo,” Carlee said. Napoleon looked at her in surprise — then remembered that she had his history class too.

“Yes,” he said. “Mr. Kuryakin is a student of mine. Bright, but a bit of a troublemaker.” Napoleon grinned inwardly.

“Strange,” Dr. Green said. “He seemed very quiet and studious.”

“I thought you —” Carlee stopped herself. Napoleon cursed silently on seeing Dr. Green perk up, but made himself say, “You thought?”

“Well.” She squirmed a little. “I saw you talking. I thought, you know, that you knew each other from before. That you were friends.”

She had a sharp eye — then Napoleon connected her unusual name and Illya’s explanation of his motorcycle ‘accident.’ She lived in the apartment complex. That damn’ Russian had all the luck.

“He took a course or two of mine back in New York.” Napoleon recited the relevant portion of their cover story, designed for just such a contingency. “Maybe that’s why he feels comfortable giving me grief.”

“He’s like a machine,” Jimmy said, resentfully. “He knows all the answers and just acts like it’s nothing, like it’s kindergarten stuff.”

“He’s very nice,” Carlee defended him. Jimmy shot her a look.

“How do you know?”

“He lives in my complex, Jimmy,” she said. “I told you that.”

He snorted. “The band’s coming back.”

Indeed a quartet of young men in black were trooping onto the stage. Napoleon stared blankly in their general direction; he didn’t even realize one of them was his partner until Carlee said:

“Oh my gosh—it’s him!”

Illya sat down to the piano, never looking around, and the band began to play a slow blues number.

“Well well,” Dr. Green said. “Speak of the devil. He appears to be a multitalented young man.”

Napoleon coughed to cover his laugh. You don’t know the half of it, professor.

While the band played Napoleon scanned the crowded pub. It was too dark for him to make out many details, but he had a sixth sense for THRUSH, and the back of his neck wasn’t tingling. Yet.

Jimmy grabbed Carlee’s hand. “Come on. Let’s dance.” It occured to Napoleon the boy was more eager to get Carlee’s attention off Illya than he was to cut a rug.

“You two know one another from New York,” Dr. Green said. Napoleon turned to the doctor, surprised at this opening to the conversation, wondering if Green was finally going to talk to him.

“Yes,” Napoleon said. “Are you familiar with New York?”

“No,” Green said, just as carefully. “I was born in Bonn.”

“Germany,” Napoleon said, brows raised. “You don’t sound German, Dr. Green.”

“Who are you really?” Green said.

“A friend,” Napoleon replied. Dr. Green shook his head, smiling.

“No. You are either THRUSH, who want me silenced, or UNCLE, who want me to talk. Neither is my friend.”

Napoleon leaned closer. “Dr. Green, THRUSH wants you dead. We want you alive. That is as close to friendship as you are going to get from either side.”

Green leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes wander the room. Napoleon waited, grateful the man hadn’t simply gotten up to leave. Yet. Maybe he was realizing the danger he was in.

“Mr. Kuryakin,” Green said, nodding toward the stage. “Is he with UNCLE too, or is he just some young physics student you recruited?”

Napoleon smiled. “Illya is a physicist, Dr. Green. And yes, he is with UNCLE.”

Green shook his head. “You send your research staff into the field? THRUSH never did that.”

Napoleon saw two bulky men in blue suits enter the pub, and his THRUSH alarm went off. “No, they usually send big stupid bruisers. Like those two over there.”

Green looked up; his face fell.

“Remain calm, Dr. Green,” Napoleon said. “Our intelligence indicates they’re not sure where you are yet — or who you are, I should say. Unless they’ve contacted you?” he added, peering at the doctor, who shook his head vehemently.

“I’ve had no contact with THRUSH since I left,” he whispered.

“Stay calm,” Napoleon repeated. “I’m going to talk to Illya. Don’t leave the table.”

Green gave him a half-panicked look. The two bruisers moved around the stage and toward the bar, on the opposite side of the room from the corner table where Green and Napoleon sat.

“They won’t try anything here, even if they do know you’re the man they’re after. Just stay put. I won’t be far, and I won’t be long. All right? Don’t do anything to make them notice you.”

* * * *

Illya bounded off the stage and met Carlee standing by a support column.

“That was great,” Carlee said.

Illya scanned the crowd briefly, returned his eyes to Carlee. “Thank you. I saw you dancing. Was that your boyfriend...” He sought in his memory for the name. “...Jimmy?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said. “Just a friend.” She nodded toward the bar. “He went to get us drinks. I didn’t know you were in the band.”

Illya saw Napoleon getting up from the table, saw Green watching him. “They were kind enough to allow me to sit in. It helps me to relax.”

“Is someone ... following you?” Carlee asked. “You seem to be watching all the time. Is it ... the KGB or whatever they are?”

Completely at a loss, he stared at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her voice and moving a little closer. “I don’t mean to interfere or anything. I’m just ... concerned for you. Is it Professor Solo?”

“What?”

“Well, I don’t know. You act like you know each other, and you’re always kind of ... watching each other. Is he with the KGB?”

“No,” he said.

“The CIA?”

He shook his head, unable to keep from smiling. She scowled.

“You think I’m an idiot,” she said. “I’m sorry. You just seemed like you were looking around ... like you were being followed. Sorry.”

“No—” he said. “You’re not an idiot.” In fact she was a little too observant. He sought for an explanation that wouldn’t insult her or reveal too much. She was looking up at him earnestly, brown eyes glowing. It seemed the easiest — and most pleasant — thing to do to just tilt her chin up with two fingers and kiss her lightly. Her lips were deliciously sweet.

“Thank you for being concerned,” he said afterward. “But you don’t need to be.”

She smiled slowly. “If that’s the way you thank people who are concerned about you...I’ll just continue doing it, if you don’t mind.”

* * * *

Napoleon passed the column and saw his partner and the girl Carlee, drawing apart after clearly engaging in a little lip-to-lip communication. He grinned and sidled past, tapping Illya lightly and saying:

“Two men, blue suits, at the bar.”

Both of them looked at him, but he kept going.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Excuse me,” Illya said, following his partner into the men’s room.

* * * *

Napoleon caught Illya’s arm and drew him aside, keeping the door open with a toe so that he could see anyone who entered or left the pub.

“Sorry to interrupt your tutorial on Communist theory — at least that’s what I assume you were doing—”

Illya rolled his eyes at his partner. “She thinks you’re tailing me. She thinks you’re with the CIA or the KGB.”

 Napoleon grinned. “The old Russian expatriate ploy?”

Illya shrugged. “It was her own idea. Are they on to Dr. Green?”

Napoleon shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think they’ve seen him, or me, yet. They came in while you were up there on stage doing your best beatnik impression. I don’t know if they’re watching him or us, but they’re definitely watching.”

“Well, should one of us leave? Then we’d know who they were following.”

Napoleon considered. “You go. I’ll leave when Dr. Green leaves. Don’t go too far, though. If they suspect him, they’ll be all over us when we leave.”

Illya nodded. “I’ll say a conspicuous good night to the band.”

“Don’t forget to say farewell to your young savior,” Napoleon needled gently. Illya ignored him, left the men’s room. Napoleon waited a moment, then, as another man entered, he departed, returning to the table where Green, Jimmy and Carlee sat, in various stages of bemusement. The two men were still at the bar, turned around, scanning the place. He felt their eyes on him, felt their gazes stop. Uh oh. After all, Daphne DuPrez knew both him and Illya on sight. It was no stretch to suppose she’d told her men what they looked like.

Illya shook hands with the band members and departed, unhurried. The two men watched him go without moving or speaking to one another. Napoleon turned to see Green staring at him. He held up a hand to urge patience, and they sat through another three songs, Jimmy and Carlee chatting about the band, Green and Napoleon silent.

* * * *

Illya walked out of the pub unaccosted, and saw three men standing under a street light on the curb, watching the door, fog curling around their ankles. He crossed the courtyard and kept moving, strolled whistling in the opposite direction. Once around a corner he peeked back, saw they hadn’t moved, and darted around the unlit backsides of buildings and through damp shrubbery until he was behind the pub. There he climbed onto the roof and crept along amongst air conditioning units and vents until he could see the men and the entrance to the pub. He sat crosslegged near the edge of the roof and pulled out his communicator.

* * * *

When the third song crashed to a stop, Napoleon said, “I think I should call it a night. Dr. Green, can I give you a lift?”

Dr. Green blinked. “I ... yes, thank you.”

They got up, bade goodnight to Carlee and Jimmy, and headed for the door. Napoleon touched Green’s arm.

“Slowly,” he said. “Stick close to me.” He ventured the slightest backward glance and saw the men slide off their barstools. He held the nervous doctor to a steady pace, feeling his tension and trembling through the touch on his arm.

Outside, fog was creeping across the paved courtyard. On the street, three men in identical suits shifted themselves from a streetlamp and sauntered their way.

“Oh no...” Green moaned under his breath.

“Don’t panic,” Napoleon said. He heard a faint whistle, like an owl, overhead, as he and Green passed under the portico covering the entrance to the pub. He smiled, his own slight tension downshifting. Trust Illya to place himself where he could catch at least some of their attackers off-guard. The two inside hadn’t come out yet. Napoleon figured they were waiting until he and Green were boxed in before making their move. He stopped, not reaching for his gun, as the men approached. Two pulled revolvers from their belts; Napoleon felt Green start.

“You two come with us,” the unarmed man in the middle said.

“Thank you, but I have other plans for the evening,” Napoleon said.

The man sneered. “Don’t be stupid, Solo. Miss DuPrez wants you dead or alive. If you think it matters to me which, you’re wrong.”

Napoleon heard two soft pops and the gunmen flanking the leader flopped to the ground, guns clattering across the pavement. The middle man looked up and around, startled.

Another, different, click, and Napoleon distinctly heard Illya curse.

The doors behind them banged open and the other two men lunged out. Napoleon dove for the leader, hitting him amidships and tackling him to the ground. He batted the man’s gun from his hand and rendered him unconscious with a few swift blows. When he got his feet under him and turned, Green was struggling ineffectually with the other two bruisers. And above, Illya had crept to the edge of the roof, gauging distance with a quick measuring look. Then he jumped, landing with one foot on each of the bruisers’ backs. The four of them hit the ground in a tangled heap.

Napoleon drew his gun and Illya rolled away from the pile. Two quick and accurate shots and the last of the THRUSH men slumped unconscious on top of a still-struggling Dr. Green.

Illya got up, went over and pulled Green free of the rubble, helping him to his unsteady feet.

“Sorry about that, professor,” Illya said, helping the older man brush off and adjust his clothes. Napoleon holstered his gun, smiling. Illya was always polite.

“What the heck...”

Jimmy and Carlee came out and stopped, taking in the carnage.

“Oh my God,” Carlee breathed. “What happened?”

Green looked at Illya, then at Napoleon. Illya looked at Napoleon too — a look Napoleon could clearly read, a smug look that said: You’re senior agent. You come up with a story.

A van pulled up with a short screech and four men piled out. Napoleon recognized one of the agents: Paul Gregson from the Los Angeles HQ in Culver City, their contact for this assignment.

“Paul!” Napoleon beckoned him, then took hold of Dr. Green’s arm and shamelessly strode away from the students with a quick, “Illya, explain it to your friends, will you?” Ignoring the black glare his partner delivered, he waved for the newly arrived agents to join him and Green at the nearest pile of THRUSHes.

The men jogged over, surveying the scattered bodies.

“Looks like we missed all the fun,” Paul said. “How are you, Napoleon?”

“Fine. We need these birds cleaned up fast and quiet. Then...” He turned to Dr. Green as the other agents began collecting limp THRUSH bodies.

“Those men won’t be the last,” Napoleon said. “We can’t protect you here. We need to get you to a safe house.”

Green looked at the UNCLE men bundling the unconscious THRUSH agents into the back of the van. He nodded.

“I’ll cooperate.”

Napoleon sighed. “Good. These men will take you to a safe house. Paul Gregson, this is Dr. Green.”

Paul extended his hand. “Our VIP. Glad to meet you, doctor. Are you ready to go?”

Green shrugged, nodded. “I suppose. I ... I don’t have any—”

“We’ll take care of everything, doctor,” Paul said smoothly, then nodded at Napoleon. “Napoleon.”

Napoleon nodded back, watched the agents take Dr. Green to the van. As it pulled away, he reluctantly rejoined his partner, currently being interrogated by Jimmy and Carlee.

“Then were they KGB agents trying to take you back to Russia?” Jimmy asked, awestruck.

Illya looked at Carlee, who raised her hands.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Well, gee,” Jimmy said. “You’re Russian. It seemed kind of like the obvious ...” He faltered into silence, then added in a small voice, “Too many spy movies, huh?”

“All this fuss over a bunch of common thieves?” Napoleon cut in.

“Thieves?” Carlee echoed. Jimmy scowled ferociously.

“They were just thieves?”

“So then you’re not with the CIA?” Carlee asked Napoleon.

Napoleon chuckled. “I’m definitely not with the CIA, Miss McNeil.”

“And you’re not a Russian spy,” she concluded, to Illya.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he evaded.

“He’s just a troublemaker,” Napoleon said, surprising all three “students” into staring at him.

“Actually, he’s not a bad kid,” Napoleon went on, ruffling Illya’s hair with one quick hand — he had to be quick if he didn’t want his partner breaking his elbow.

Illya ducked away, grimacing, and smoothed his disarrayed locks. He glared at Napoleon, who grinned and said:

“A little rambunctious, but ... what kid isn’t, these days?”

Carlee was shaking her head. “And the men with the van were, what? Undercover policemen?” Her tone was impatient; she knew she was being lied to.

“Exactly,” Napoleon said in a very level tone.

“But...” Carlee snapped her mouth shut, clearly dissatisfied with the explanation, but just as clearly aware she wasn’t going to get a better one.

“It’s getting late,” Jimmy said. He was obviously puzzled too, but not as irritated by it as Carlee. He took her arm. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

She glared at Illya accusingly before walking away with Jimmy.

The agents watched them go. Illya sighed and Napoleon elbowed him gently.

“Never mind. When we get this all cleared up you can buy her flowers and take her to dinner. If she doesn’t forgive you ...” Napoleon grinned. “There’s always her friend Sharon.”

Illya rolled his eyes at his partner. Napoleon took his arm and directed him toward the parking lot and their respective vehicles.

“Come on,” Napoleon urged. “Mission accomplished. Time to pack it up and get ready to go home. At least you won’t have to suffer through finals. By the way, what happened up there?”

“Hm?”

Napoleon gestured behind them, toward the roof of the pub. “You don’t usually resort to language like that when children are around.”

Illya followed his gesture. “Oh.” He fished out his gun and popped the clip, shoving it into a pocket. “Stupid mercy bullets. They’re always jamming my gun.” He pulled back the slide and removed the jammed anaesthetic dart, dropping it into his pocket too.

Napoleon clucked his tongue. “You just like using the real thing. You’re so bloodthirsty.”

“It’s the Russian spy in me,” Illya muttered as they stopped at Napoleon’s car.

“Meet me in Culver City at eight,” Napoleon said, pulling out his keys. “We’ll drop off the vehicles and other incidentals and get the first flight out.”

“That doesn’t leave me much time for dinner and flowers,” Illya said.

“A spy’s life is a lonely one,” Napoleon said airily.

“Some spies, maybe.” Illya headed for his motorcycle. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

* * * *

Napoleon had packed up his gear and was staring at the cases, thinking about whether he should go over to the university and collect the cover paraphernalia from the office there, or leave it for the Los Angeles team, when his communicator went off. He pulled it out and glanced at his watch. 4 a.m.

“Solo here.”

“Napoleon.”

Illya’s tone instantly communicated trouble.

“Where are you?” Napoleon asked, heading for the door.

“The apartment. It’s on fire.”

“I’m on my way.”

Napoleon called the Los Angeles office as he drove, requesting backup. Illya hadn’t had to explain — the odds of a fire at the apartment being accident were ... well, nonexistent.

* * * *

He could see the smoke as soon as he topped the gentle swell of the coast highway between the campus and the apartment complex. He turned down the steet just behind the fire engine, unsurprised his partner had had the sense to call them first.

A half-circle of onlookers stood in the street; the apartment building was wholly engulfed as the firefighters scrambled off their truck and unrolled hoses.

Napoleon scanned the crowd for Illya but didn’t see him. He parked a safe distance away and walked into the group, seeking his partner’s familiar thatch of flaxen hair. The fire brigade spread out. Flames danced grotesquely from every window, curling skyward. A couple of coughing students sat on the curb.

“Oh! Professor Solo!”

He turned as a girl — he couldn’t remember her name but she was in his class — grabbed his arm.

“Have you seen Illya?” he asked her. Her mouth, open, snapped shut in surprise.

“He went back in looking for Zero,” she said, point at the building. “Hasn’t he come back out yet?”

“Which apartment?” Napoleon barked, not knowing or caring who Zero was.

She pointed again. “Four.”

Napoleon ran up the steps, between two startled firemen.

“Hey! Hey!” One of them barked. “Get back here!”

He darted around the pool, took a deep breath of the relatively clear outside air and dashed through the open door of No. 4.

Flame and smoke surrounded him; fire climbed the walls, the curtains, the furniture. Napoleon squinted through the smoke, shouted, “Illya!” and heard a cough and crash in the next room. He dodged hot spots on the carpet and plunged into a bedroom to see Illya on his knees at the foot of a bed. Napoleon grabbed him around the waist and hauled him backward out of the room, carrying his coughing partner out of the apartment.

Gulping down fresh air, Napoleon set Illya on his feet and merely half-carried him, not stopping until they were at the curb. He bumped up against the firetruck and eased his gasping partner to the ground. Out of the corner of one streaming eye Napoleon thought he saw something small and black fall from his partner’s arms and scurry under the truck.

He leaned one hand on Illya’s heaving shoulder and the two agents spent a couple of minutes drawing air into their polluted lungs and letting tears wash the smoke from their stinging eyes.

A loud yowl came from under the fire truck. Napoleon bent, saw two round eyes gleaming white-green at him.

“Zero, I presume,” he said, looking at his sooty partner.

Illya coughed. “I was looking for Sharon when I saw the cat,” he explained.

Napoleon turned to look at the building, the crowd. He didn’t see the luscious Sharon or Carlee anywhere. “Maybe she was out dancing the night away.”

“She was home when I got here after midnight,” Illya said. “So were Carlee and Deb.” He waved toward the girl who’d told Napoleon where he was.

“And your furry friend,” Napoleon muttered.

“But they weren’t in their apartment when the fire started,” Illya went on. “I checked.”

“They were smart enough to clear out at the first sign of smoke,” Napoleon said pointedly. “Cat or no cat.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Illya said gravely. Napoleon looked down at him. Illya nodded toward the apartment. “Come in after me. You could have gotten killed.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m hearing a lecture on foolhardiness from you. You went in after a cat. I went in after you.”

An older model sedan pulled up behind Napoleon’s car and four men climbed out, UNCLE written all over them. They approached Napoleon and Illya, looking around warily at all the commotion.

“You called for backup?” one of them asked.

“Yes, we have a feline to bodyguard, apparently,” Napoleon said. Illya sighed loudly.

“Did everyone else get out all right?”

“You mean besides the cat?” Napoleon ignored the fact that his partner had started to smolder again. “We can always ask the firemen.”

He scanned the area, saw Deb break free of the crowd, looking around anxiously. When she spotted them, she came running forward — hesitating when she saw the four suited men surrounding them.

“Oh, Professor Solo — Illya, are you all right?” She touched his smoke-blackened sleeve delicately. “I can’t believe you ran in there!” she said to Napoleon.

“And he’s never going to let me forget it,” Illya muttered, climbing laboriously to his feet.

“Oh — professor! A woman handed me this to give to you.” She held out a folded sheet of paper. “She was in a big limousine.”

Napoleon took the note. “Was she alone?”

“No. She had Tim and Marvin and Sharon and Carlee in the car with her. She said she was taking Sharon and Carlee someplace safe, and she told me to give that to you. It was so strange. I’ve never seen her before. I don’t know—”

“When?” Napoleon barked as Illya moved into the street, scanning the surrounding area.

“Not 10 minutes ago.”

“Thank you,” Napoleon said, moving away from the puzzled girl. The other agents clustered around him.

The note read: “Bring Dr. K to 33001 Industrial Way.”

“She left off the traditional ‘or elses’,” Napoleon said as he handed his returning partner the note.

“I’ve always admired Miss DuPrez’ brevity,” Illya said. He passed the note to their backup agents.

“Yes, unfortunately it’s part of an overall impatience that means we probably don’t have much time to formulate a plan,” Napoleon said, peering thoughtfully into the distance.

“Killing them will get her nothing,” Illya said.

“How many of those kids are you willing to see die before she realizes that?” Napoleon replied. It wasn’t a challenge, despite the words, and Illya merely shrugged.

“I’m not that fond of Whatsisname.”

Napoleon smiled tightly and beckoned the other agents even closer.

* * * *

Sharon scooted along the bench until she was next to Carlee. The two men with the rifles looked at them, uninterested, and didn’t interfere.

“What the hell is going on?” she whispered. Carlee could feel her body trembling, hear the fear in her voice.

“I have no idea,” she whispered back. She looked around the hangar, scattered with men in blue jumpsuits moving about. She was completely at a loss but determined not to panic.

When Tim and Whatsisname had bundled them into that woman’s limo she’d thought it odd, but she’d known Tim long enough that she’d had no suspicions.

Until she’d looked at that woman. Miss DuPrez, they called her. Obviously the boss of all these men. The men with guns. Carlee felt as if she and Sharon had been dropped into a gangster movie. Only she had a feeling the guns weren’t props.

Everyone had ignored their questions. They’d driven for half an hour; when the car stopped  and Carlee’d considered making a run for it, a rifle was pointed in her face. She’d nearly screamed.

They’d been dragged into a small airplane hangar, bare and open, with a barrel ceiling.

She and Sharon had been sitting here for half an hour at least, not tied up or anything but with two big guys and their rifles blocking the way out. Across the way, in an area set up like an office, Miss DuPrez was talking on a phone. Tim and Whatsisname were with her. Carlee had counted a dozen of the big guys with the rifles. She guessed the fire at their apartment building had been set by these people — at least it seemed like quite a coincidence — but what they could possibly want with her and Sharon...

“Sharon,” she whispered, “is your dad really rich?”

Sharon stared at her. “What?”

Carlee shrugged. “I was wondering if maybe they’re holding us — well, you — for ransom, you know?” Even as she said it, she realized it didn’t make sense for them to have taken her as well.

“He’s not that rich,” Sharon said. “I mean, that bitch has a limo and guys with guns, and those diamonds she’s wearing are real. I don’t think she needs money.”

Carlee shook her head, smiling. She hadn’t even noticed the diamonds; trust Sharon to see a detail like that. Carlee had noticed, however, that wherever they were was still on the coast — the taste and feel of the air was unmistakable. She wondered if it was a private airfield, though the echoing hangar contained no plane.

Sharon spoke to the guards, her voice loud but quavering. “Are you going to kill us?”

They looked at her, then each other, and grinned.

“Not right away, honey,” one of them said. They both laughed and Carlee felt ice shiver up her back.

“Oh my God,” Sharon cried, white-faced. “Why are you doing this?”

They chose not to answer that question.

Miss DuPrez hung up the phone and looked across the hangar at the two girls, then beckoned Tim and Whatsisname and headed that way.

The guards moved to either side to let her pass. She stopped in front of Carlee and Sharon, smiling.

“Why are we here?” Carlee asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Bargaining chips,” DuPrez said. Carlee had heard her speak no more than a dozen words, but realized now that the woman had a faint French accent. She was very beautiful, if one overlooked the coldness of her eyes.

“You’ve made a mistake,” Carlee said. “We don’t have any money, or anything. We don’t have anything anyone would want.”

“You are innocent bystanders,” DuPrez said. “That has a great deal of value to ... to the organization I am bargaining with. If you two just sit here and behave yourselves, you might get out of this alive.”

“What are you guys doing here?” Carlee asked, looking first at Tim, then at Whatsisname. “Who are you people anyway?” For some reason she remembered in a flash Illya asking about Tim and Whatsisname. She also remembered the altercation outside the campus pub not 8 hours before. Suddenly she knew this had something to do with Illya.

Another man with a gun approached Daphne.

“Miss DuPrez, they’re here.” He tilted his head in the direction of the doors they’d originally come through.

Daphne smiled. “Bring them.”

The man marched away and Daphne gave the girls a venomously sweet smile.

“Your rescuers have arrived, young ladies.”

Carlee felt Sharon start — she probably did as well — when Professor Solo and Illya walked in, side by side, surrounded by men pointing guns at them. They didn’t look scared. They didn’t even look nervous, just a little smoke-stained.

Daphne scowled at them, then at the men around them.

“Where is Dr. Kuiper?” she demanded of Professor Solo.

He blinked. “Who?”

Daphne was unmoved. “You must have gotten my note, Napoleon.”

“Yes. I brought Dr. K,” he said, indicating Illya. “Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

She regarded Illya through half-closed eyes. “Mr. Kuryakin. Good to see you again.” She returned the gaze to Professor Solo. “And yes, I do remember that your redoubtable partner has a doctorate in something or other.”

“There were only these two,” the driver blurted even as her heavily mascara-blackened eyes shifted toward him. “We searched them, got rid of all their weapons and a couple of tracing devices.”

She glanced at Professor Solo, whose body language and expression now suggested a shrug. “Hm. They were probably still traced here ... isn’t that so, Napoleon dear?”

Then he did shrug. “Who can say, Daphne my sweet?”

“So. You’ve chosen to do it this way.” She sighed. “Really, Napoleon. You must realize I’m perfectly willing to hurt or kill these children to get Dr. Kuiper back.”

Sharon gasped.  Carlee hushed her, intent on trying to make sense of what was going on. This crazy woman apparently knew Professor Solo — she called him Napoleon — and Illya.

Napoleon seemed unaffected by the threat. “You must be equally aware that doing so won’t get you any closer to Dr. Kuiper.”

“I expect you have the place surrounded,” she went on. Napoleon shrugged.

“But your people can’t move in,” she said, “because then, of course, I would kill the girls and you two.”

“So.” Napoleon crossed his hands in front of him. Carlee gaped at him. How could he be so calm when this woman was talking about killing all of them?

“We seem to be at stalemate,” he said.

“Professor!” Sharon wailed. “She’s going to kill us!”

Carlee again shushed her friend.

Daphne looked at them, then back at Professor Solo. “Professor?” she echoed. “Oh, that’s right. You’re pretending to be a teacher at the college, aren’t you? These little girls don’t know who you and your partner really are.” She turned her gaze on Illya. “You’ve been very quiet, Mr. Kuryakin. Still playing the role of the quiet graduate student? There’s no point any longer, you know. If these girls haven’t figured out your tired ruse by now, they’ll know soon enough.”

She waved her men closer. Professor Solo and Illya looked around at the gunmen converging on them. They still didn’t look scared. Carlee’s first, wild thought was ‘they’re secret agents or something.’ She sternly told herself to remain calm.

“If you want to see this Dr. Kuiper, whoever he is,” Napoleon said, “Why don’t you give him a call? I’m sure he’d be delighted to entertain so lovely a lady.”

Daphne smiled. “Charming to the last, Napoleon. But dilatory. Come now. Kuiper is gone. We know you have him. Hand him over or we’ll kill both you and these young ladies.”

The men surrounding them raised their guns. Whatsisname smirked.

Napoleon sighed. “I really wish you people could come up with a fresh take on your ultimata. I’m pretty tired of the hand-him-over-or-else ploy.”

“You won’t be so cool when we start on the girls,” Whatsisname said. “You UNCLE agents don’t have any guts when it comes down to it.”

“Silence,” Daphne admonished softly. Whatsisname scowled; Tim smiled. Carlee couldn’t believe Tim was some kind of criminal. Whatsisname ... that was a different matter.

Napoleon ignored Whatsisname. “Mademoiselle, you must know that our organization, like your own, operates on a need-to-know basis. Neither Illya nor I have the faintest idea where Dr. Kuiper has been taken.”

Daphne said, “Hm.”

Carlee guessed she was trying to decide whether to believe Napoleon. She also guessed that her first silly guess was right: they were spies or something.

“Well, you do know plenty of other things.” Daphne beckoned one of her men forward. “Bind them.”

The man pulled out handcuffs and locked Napoleon’s and Illya’s hands behind their backs, not very gently. Sharon winced and hissed at Carlee’s side.

“I’ll tell you, I’m not feeling particularly chatty just now,” Napoleon said.

Daphne smiled. “We have a slew of lovely new drugs at Central. You’ll tell us the name of your imaginary childhood friend.”

“If that’s the direction this little party is taking, you might send the kids home,” Napoleon suggested.

“Or I might simply kill them now,” she said sweetly.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to ensure our cooperation?” Illya put in. “Killing them takes away any leverage you might have.”

Sharon gasped — Carlee assumed at the coldness of their discussion about killing. She herself was in such a state of fearful anticipation she didn’t have any nerve endings to spare for shock.

Daphne smiled again. “How long have you two been partners?” she asked rhetorically. “I think as long as I have you both I can persuade one of you to talk.”

Illya shrugged. “Neither of us knows where Dr. Kuiper is.”

Daphne cocked her head. “Then let us all go back to Central and ... resume negotiations there, shall we?” She glanced at Tim.

“The plane’s ready,” he said.

“We don’t need them,” Whatsisname snarled, waving at Carlee and Sharon.

“We’ll take them anyway,” Daphne said. Whatsisname subsided into scowling silence. Tim went to the girls, smiling.

“Come on, get up.” He pulled them to their feet, not rough but not all that gentle, and they were herded into a little group with Napoleon and Illya, the four of them surrounded by riflemen. Daphne, Tim and Whatsisname trailed them toward the exit.

“Professor...” Sharon whimpered. Carlee elbowed her. Napoleon turned his head, gave them a small smile.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”

One of the guards laughed and prodded Napoleon’s shoulder with the barrel of his gun.

“Pull the other one, big UNCLE man!” His associates chuckled.

The front guards shoved the doors open and the little crowd moved onto the tarmac, where a twin engine prop jet waited, rotors turning. The air was chill and damp, the sky red with dawn; the hangar cast long, reaching shadows westward.

A bullet clanged off the metal of the hangar and everybody ducked — including, belatedly, Carlee and Sharon. Napoleon and Illya at once elbowed their escorts aside and separated, diving for the barrels and crates piled near the hangar.

“Stop them!” Daphne shouted. Another bullet hit the hangar wall with a zing.

“Who’s shooting?” Sharon asked. The bad guys scattered behind the crates and other debris, then started firing sporadically across the tarmac. Answering fire — Carlee realized she could tell because it sounded more distant — whinged into the hanger or thudded into the tarmac.

Carlee shook her head. “I don’t know. Someone else, I think.”

“Don’t fire at the plane!” Daphne shouted.

Napoleon darted out from the piles of crates, hands still bound behind his back, and sprinted toward the plane.

Whatsisname raised his gun, taking aim.

Sharon screamed. Daphne shouted, “No!”

Whatsisname pulled the trigger. Carlee flinched at the report. Napoleon spun to the tarmac, rolling.

“Stop him,” Daphne snapped at Tim. He grabbed Whatsisname’s arm and yanked it down, taking the gun from him. Whatsisname turned with a murderous scowl, as if he wanted to attack Tim. Daphne said:

“Stop. We have work to do.” To Whatsisname she said icily, “I’ll deal with you later. You men!” she shouted at the rest of her men. “Bring the girls out into the open. Let the UNCLE agents see that we have hostages. And find Kuryakin!”

Two men grabbed the girls. Carlee and Sharon struggled, not wanting to be put in the line of fire, but they were shoved out onto the tarmac in front of the gunmen.

The gunfire, which had stopped after Napoleon was hit, did not resume. The other gunmen looked around amongst the barrels and crates, but it appeared Illya had gotten clean away.

“Get Solo and come on,” Daphne said, moving out into the open but careful to keep the girls between her and the presumed location of their foe. She marched toward the plane. Whatsisname followed; Tim tucked his gun into his belt and smirked.

The men pushed Carlee and Sharon toward the stairs; two others picked Napoleon up and shoved him to the steps, half carrying him. His head wobbled a bit, but his eyes were open, though glazed. He managed to get his feet under him and stagger up the steps, his guard following, the girls and their escorts coming after.

Daphne got on the plane; Tim and Whatsisname pushed the stair away and closed the hatch. She was glaring daggers at Napoleon, now surrounded by the gunmen.

“Unbind him so he can sit down, and watch him as if your lives depended on it,” she told her men. “For believe me, they do.”

Napoleon was seated across the plane from Carlee and Sharon, who were placed on a couch with Tim and Whatsisname on either side. Daphne claimed a chair and watched, thin-lipped, eyes glittering with anger as her gunmen arrayed themselves around the UNCLE agent.

Carlee felt sick to her stomach at the sight of the blood staining Napoleon’s coat sleeve.

“I just want you to know,” Daphne said as the plane’s engines revved up, “that I plan to take your partner’s escape out of your hide.”

Napoleon met her gaze, his own tight with pain, and said, “I would expect no less.”

The plane sped down the runway and lurched into the sky.

“Please just let us go,” Sharon said to Daphne — a trifle late, Carlee thought, since they were already in the air now. “We haven’t done anything—”

“That is irrelevant, my child,” Daphne said. “You have some use to us, and we intend to take advantage of it. So just sit there quietly and this will hurt as little as possible.” She tilted her chin at Whatsisname. “Get up front. Get me an ETA. I wouldn’t want Mr. Solo to bleed to death before we got home.” He went forward.

“Why should we cooperate,” Carlee ventured, hearing her voice shake, “if you’re going to kill us anyway?” She felt about five seconds away from throwing up.

Daphne looked at her, head tilted. “Consider the difference between dying, and suffering a great deal of pain, then dying, and I’m sure you’ll come up with some persuasive reasons to behave, my child.”

“Let them go and I’ll cooperate,” Napoleon said abruptly, his voice surprisingly strong.

Daphne smiled. “You don’t—”

Three bangs, as of something hard hitting metal, came from the cockpit.

“What in...” Daphne glanced up, waved at her men. “Go see what’s going on.”

They plunged into the cockpit. More banging ensued, then the two men came out, Illya Kuryakin hanging rather rumpled between them. Whatsisname followed them out, looking considerably more than rumpled; his mouth was bloodied and swollen and his puffy eyes were murderous as they fixed on Illya.

Carlee stared in astonishment, then glanced at Napoleon in time to see him smile faintly.

“The pilot’s dead,” Whatsisname said.

“Then we need him to fly the plane, you idiot!” Daphne snapped.

“It’s on autopilot at the moment,” Illya said calmly. “But obviously that’s only a temporary solution.”

Daphne looked Illya over. “Get back in there and ...”

“Fly us to THRUSH Central?” Illya finished. “I’ll need directions.”

Napoleon smirked again.

“Son of a bitch,” Whatsisname snarled. “Just let me kill him—”

“Shut up, you fool!” Daphne snapped. “Let me think.”

“If this is an example of the new breed of THRUSH henchmen,” Napoleon said, “I think I can retire in confidence.”

Whatsisname snarled, lunged at Napoleon and backhanded him. Napoleon started out of his seat, but the other men brought their weapons up and he let himself sink down again, working his jaw.

“Temper is a poor substitute for intelligence,” Illya said quietly.

Tim smiled. Whatsisname’s face darkened with rage.

“You son of a—” He grabbed his gun from Tim’s waistband. Tim lunged for it and the two men tangled.

“Stop it, you fools!” Daphne shouted, jumping to her feet. Her second command was directed at the other men. “Stop them.” Her remaining henchmen piled on to Tim and Whatsisname.

A gun went off, twice. Carlee and Sharon dove onto the floor; Carlee saw Illya bend to his shoe, stand again, and drop something round and dark. It hit the carpet and smoke billowed from it, filling the plane in seconds.

* * * *

Carlee woke up to someone lightly slapping her cheek.

“Come on, wake up.” She blinked up at Professor Solo — Napoleon — who immediately lifted her onto her feet, steadying her with the arm that didn’t have a bullet hole in it. His jacket sleeve was dark with blood. The plane was vibrating a lot and seemed to be angling downward.

Sharon stood hugging herself on the other side. Illya came scowling out of the cockpit through the last wisps of clearing smoke.

“That idiot managed to hit the controls,” he said. “The autopilot is off and I can’t control the plane.”

Sharon shivered and emitted a tiny cry.

Napoleon said, “It’s over the side, then. Are there any parachutes or life vests?”

Illya peered out one of the small windows. “In another minute we’ll be close enough to the water that it won’t matter.” He glanced back at the three of them.

“Can you girls swim?” Napoleon asked.

“Does it matter?” Illya put in, then grabbed the door release and pulled.

The roar of rushing air filled the plane and their ears as the door swung open. Carlee could see that they were no more than about 50 feet above the water, blue and white with silver flashes where the sunlight glinted on it. They weren’t going very fast, she thought —

Until Napoleon urged her to the edge of the door and she got a good look at what she was about to do. She drew in a breath to protest and was pushed.

The protest became a shout of fear and surprise.

A brief cold rush of air grabbed at her. Then she hit the water. It was really cold, washing up her nose and into her mouth as she sank. She snorted and started kicking for the surface automatically. When her head broke, she saw three other wet heads near her — then heard a horrendous explosive splash as the plane hit the water. Coughing out seawater, she turned and tried to see over the gentle swell of the waves — thank God for a calm sea — but she couldn’t make out anything of the plane.

“Come on!” Illya shouted. She turned and followed the others, swimming toward what she presumed was shore, though she couldn’t see it.

She concentrated on following the others, on paddling steadily, on breathing, on not panicking. She almost sucked in another wave of seawater when something white appeared right in front of them. She stopped swimming and trod water, blinking to clear her vision. She realized the others had stopped too; two blond heads and one dark bobbed near her.

A gleaming coast guard powerboat floated toward them, several uniformed men leaning over the side.

One of them called out, “Need a lift?”

Once the coast guard crew pulled them all aboard, the cutter turned about and headed back to shore; Illya followed a crewman below and the others sat on deck drying in the warm morning sun.

“Are you okay?” Carlee asked Napoleon as he gingerly worked his injured arm. Sharon sat close against Napoleon’s other side, shaking and white.

He gave Carlee a smile. “I’m alive. That will do for now.”

Illya stalked back onto the deck armed with a white first aid kit. He plunked unceremoniously down next to Napoleon and pulled his jacket off him — slightly hampered by Sharon, who was hanging on to Napoleon’s uninjured arm — and ripped his shirt to get at the bullet crease in his shoulder.

Napoleon swiped seawater out of his face, winced as Illya probed the wound, and said, “I hope you all realize this is going to be on the final.”

Carlee laughed shakily. Sharon burst into tears.

* * * *

Carlee sat on a bench, hunched over her notebook, writing as fast as she could; she’d gotten a good idea for how to start the story and she didn’t want to waste it. When a shadow crossed her, she didn’t bother to look up. When the shadow turned into a body sitting next to her on the bench, she did glance over.

Then almost dropped her pen.

“Hello,” Illya Kuryakin said.

She stared. Then looked at her notebook. Then looked back at him. And blushed. And turned her eyes to her notebook again. Then she realized she hadn’t even said hello back. Tapping her pen on the page, she looked sidelong at him, her cheeks burning.

“What’s another word for ‘embarrassed?’“ she asked.

“Shmushchyony,” he said.

She smiled. “I was hoping for an English synonym.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “How are you?”

He shrugged. “Reasonably well. What about you?”

She shrugged too. “I’m fine, I guess. Still sleeping with the lights on.”

“I do that too,” he said, and she felt better, though she was fairly certain he was lying.

“Can I ask ... how everything turned out?” she ventured. The coast guard had dropped them off, then two strangers in suits had taken Carlee and Sharon to a hotel where they could call their families and get such help as two college girls recently burned out of their apartment might need. That was two days ago.

The look on his face answered her clearly. “Sorry.”

She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“One of your mediocre novels?” he asked, nodding toward the notebook.

“Actually, I’m writing a spy story.”

He grimaced. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m going to change the names and places and make the girl brave and beautiful instead of stupid and helpless. No one will recognize anything.”

He frowned. “Now if I say you really are brave and beautiful, you’ll think I’m paying you an empty compliment.”

She grinned. “Yes. But I’ll take it all the same.” She saw acceptance settle on his face, felt her own smile slipping. “You’ll be leaving, right? I mean, soon.”

He nodded, looked around the campus. Wary, she thought, as always.

“Is Illya Kuryakin your real name?” she asked. The blue eyes touched her face, shifted away again.

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not,” she admitted. “I guess none of it matters. I wish it did, though.”

“So do I, sometimes,” he said. Then he met her eyes squarely, smiled. “May I make it up to you?”

“Is that possible?” she asked.

His smile twisted a little in acknowledgement. “Then may I buy you dinner?”

She considered him, pen tip between her teeth. How would she describe him? What words would she use, when she made him fiction, after he left?

 They’d have dinner. Maybe a little more than that. Then he’d be gone, she knew. Forever. He was already fiction.

She forced a smile. “That would be lovely.”

The End

 


End file.
